The Case of the Assured Assassin
by Westron Wynde
Summary: Dr Watson is faced with the hardest choice of his life when a patient comes to his surgery with a sinister proposition. COMPLETE!
1. I: A Most Regrettable Incident

_**The singular and most talented Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson et al are the creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This is a work of fan fiction, by a fan, for the enjoyment of other fans and no harm is meant or intended by its creation.**_

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_**The Case of the Assured Assassin**_

**I: A Most Regrettable Incident**

In the recounting of those mysteries in which I had the privilege to assist Mr Sherlock Holmes, I hope I have never given the impression that our alliance was entirely one-sided as I have endeavoured as much as I am able to convey the depth of our friendship.

At the best of times, Holmes is hopelessly inscrutable; at the worst, inexcusably rude. But I flatter myself that, of all people, he has invariably chosen me as his companion in the pursuit of justice and has allowed me to chronicle those cases which have presented him with the most challenging of problems.

I do not pretend, however, that it has always been easy. The occasion of my marriage put a strain on our relationship and made demands upon myself that Holmes was either unwilling or unable to appreciate. Telegrams in the middle of the night, requests to pursue a particular line of enquiry on his behalf, long absences without a word and then a sudden reappearance – I will not pretend that at times Holmes can be the most trying man in London.

Fortunately, I am blessed with a most forgiving and understanding wife in Mary, and I am painfully aware that my acquaintance with Holmes forces me at times to neglect her most abysmally. She has never demanded that I choose between my marriage and my friendship, although I have often seen the disappointment in her eyes when I have told her that I must leave her another night because Holmes has requested it.

Occasionally, however, I feel the need to refine our boundaries, lest my whole being become a mere adjunct to one of Holmes' investigations. On the evening in question, a warm Saturday in the November of 1890, we were preparing to go to the theatre to attend a play that Mary was most eager to see when a most insistent telegram arrived from Holmes. It was not so much the nature of the request, but the curt manner in which he had worded it.

"_Come immediately. Whatever you are doing is insignificant compared to this!"_

It sometimes crosses my mind that Holmes has no respect for me at all. Strange as though it may appear to him, I do have a life that does not revolve around criminals and the baser side of human nature. Nor do I like to be told that my meagre existence, for what it is worth, is unimportant.

Worse still, he had known of this engagement for over a month, for he had secured the tickets to the opening night for me as a favour. That he should ask this, on this of all nights, struck me as an appalling lack of regard.

My indignation was raised all the more by the sudden appearance of my wife, looking both radiant and happy in the expectation of a rare evening spent together. She saw the telegram in my hand and that patient look of understanding took the place of joy in her eyes. There was nothing for it. The telegram went into the wastepaper basket without a second thought. As I say, at times, boundaries are needed.

The next day, of course, I was plagued with guilt. Holmes had needed me and I had turned my back on him. Amends would have to be made, and so I had journeyed to Baker Street later that day.

His reception was decidedly chilly. His mood was bumptious and his manner off-hand. He would tell me nothing, for, as he stated, it was plainly of no interest to me. I generally hate the hurly-burly of an argument, but it seemed to me that I deserved better than this brusque treatment.

It is rare that our friendship is rocked by disagreements. That afternoon, however, words were exchanged that would have been better not said. Like the genie released from his bottle, harsh words spoken in anger are not easily recaptured. I left, smarting from our row, and vowing never to return.

Several days later, I was torn between my own pride and the certainty that I had made a horrible mistake. I will admit to my faults; Holmes, however, will admit to none. In his mind, this disagreeable affair was entirely my doing. He would never see that his constant demands were unreasonable or at times inconvenient.

All the same, any satisfaction I had gained from stating my case was tempered by the knowledge that I had probably injured him just as severely as he had me. In the closing stages of our dispute, I had accused him of taking advantage of my willingness to assist and accompany him. At the time, I had felt it most deeply; looking back now, I am ashamed beyond words.

For if it was ever so, then it was done with my wholehearted consent. There was not one moment I have ever regretted, nor one adventure I would have missed. There is surely no greater fool in London than me. Worst of all, I had known where to strike to wound the deepest and had done so without mercy.

Before I had no peace, but now I had no comfort. Contrition is never pleasant, but in this case it was a necessary evil.

Mary, I think, was relieved that I had made my mind up to settle my differences with Sherlock Holmes. Since that business in which our paths first crossed, she has carried a torch for my friend, which I am not sure he entirely deserves, especially as he had tried his level best to dissuade me from the match. I had chosen not to heed what I saw as his meddling and I am not sure that he has ever truly forgiven me for defying him.

Perhaps it was because he knew in his heart that I had been in the right. I have never been happier or more content. There are times when I miss those heady bachelor days, and I am always consoled by what I have gained, more than longing for what was lost.

However, it was never my intention to abandon my singular friend. Where there are amends to be made, I have often found that a small gift can ease the path to forgiveness. Accordingly, I had selected the finest single malt whisky money could buy and the peace-offering sat on my desk, waiting for the time when I could leave my practice and head over to Baker Street.

As it happened, patients were few and far between that afternoon, and I had intended to close early. With the clock striking four, I decided that it was time to leave. No sooner had I laid aside my pen than the maid informed me that a gentleman was asking to be seen.

With a sigh, I told her to show him in. In due course, a small middle-aged gentleman was ushered in and I invited him to take a seat.

Dapper and impeccably neat in habit, he regarded me through a pair of thick-lensed glasses in a manner that reminded me of a quizzical bird.

"You are Dr John Watson?" asked he.

"I am, sir. How may I be of assistance?"

He sniffed, a little disdainfully to my mind, and I would not be lying if I said that suddenly I began to have misgivings about this potential patient.

"I had thought you would be older," said the man.

It was a strange opening gambit and one that made me even more on my guard. I began to regret my practice of keeping my old service revolver in the chest of drawers in my dressing room rather than at hand in my desk.

"Your name, sir?"

"My name is of no import, Doctor. Do sit down and listen, sir," said he, seeing my half-hearted attempt to rise from my seat. "You ask how you may be of assistance to me. Well, my dear sir, it is quite simple what I ask."

"It is?"

"Oh, yes. I want you to assist me in the murder of Mr Sherlock Holmes."

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_Continued in __**II: The Smiling Assassin**_

_Reviews always gratefully received and very welcome!_


	2. II: The Smiling Assassin

_**The Case of the Assured Assassin**_

**II: The Smiling Assassin**

In the course of my career, I have had many requests come my way. Some pitiable, some unseemly, some downright peculiar, but this was unique in for its enormity and sheer audacity. As unbelievable as it was, I tried desperately to find in that face any trace of amusement to confirm my fervent wish that this was nothing but an unpleasant jest.

"Surely you are not serious, sir?" said I, when what little hope I had had faded fast.

From behind his glasses, his gaze never wavered. "Oh, but I am very serious, Doctor. I have a 'grudge', for want of a better word, against your estimable friend, and I mean to settle that score. Permanently."

"And you expect me to help you? You would be advised, sir, to leave my surgery this instant before I am forced to call for the police!"

The man sighed. "I had anticipated your reaction, Doctor. Now, be a good fellow and sit down."

The words were quietly but confidently spoken. I should not have paid them much heed, but then I find that a pistol pointed in my general direction is always more compelling than the best-judged argument. Accordingly, I sat.

"Better," said he contentedly, although he did not relax his grip on his gun. "Now, sir, our business is very straightforward. You will aid me and I will ensure that your pretty wife is left to her widowhood in peace."

I will not pretend that at that moment I did not feel a chill run through me. In my long acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, we have faced all manner of criminal lunatics who have sworn vengeance and promised our certain deaths. But to threaten Mary, the most innocent and unassuming of souls, was to drive a knife through my very heart.

He saw my troubled expression and he chuckled, the vilest sound that I wish never to hear again. Looking at this otherwise unremarkable man anew, I was certain of the danger I found myself in. Small he may have been, but his presence seemed to fill the room with the very malice of the man. Clean-shaven and bald but for a thin strand of greying hair encircling his scalp above his ears, he gave the impression of highly-polished wooden effigy, left for all eternity with a hideous grin plastered across its face.

"You seemed somewhat stunned, Doctor," said he. "Either you do not believe me or you do not believe that I should bring such a proposition to your door. In either case, I wish to assure you most earnestly of my intentions. Similarly, you may be certain that if you attempt any action against my person during the course of our business, I will shoot you here and then your wife will be next."

I pride myself on being able to summon up a timely reaction when faced with danger, but for once I was at a loss. Words did indeed fail me. I knew not how to respond or how to extract myself from this terrible situation. I sat, in stupefied horror, as the man continued with his proposition.

"I am a methodical man and have prepared for every eventuality. I know that today, for example, your former landlady visits her sister in Sanderstead, leaving at two and returning on the eight fifteen train. I know that she allowed you to keep your keys to your former rooms and that you are in the habit of letting yourself in when you are summoned to assist your friend in his investigations."

It was fast occurring to me that he knew far too much about our habits to be merely a wondering maniac with a slight grievance against Holmes. He had clearly taken the time to observe the comings and goings at Baker Street with great care over a lengthy period.

"I also know," he went on, "that at present, you are at odds, which suits my purpose exceeding well."

"How ever did you know that?" I said in spite of myself.

His sickly smile broadened. "Your clever friend is not unique in his talent for observation, Doctor. The reasoning behind my assertion is quite elementary. On Saturday last, you received a summons from Mr Holmes –"

"A request," I corrected him, keen for some bizarre reason to preserve what little was left of my dignity.

"Come now, Doctor. Do not split hairs on such an issue. You are summoned and you attend, like the loyal friend you are. There is no shame in such devotion; I mention it only to illuminate you as to my deductions. Where a man deviates from habit, as you did on Saturday night, there is cause for interest. Faced with the choice, you chose your wife. Am I not right?"

As much I as hated to admit it, if only to myself, he was correct. How he knew was absurdly simple too, as Holmes would have it. Clearly, this creature had been following me and making a careful observation of my routine. Futile as it was now, I cursed myself for being lackadaisical enough not to have been aware of my unwanted shadow.

"Then the next day," the man continued, "you took yourself to Baker Street, I imagine to explain your absence of the previous evening. Your interview was brief, but heated, if I am any judge of your furious expression as you left your former rooms. Since then you have not been back, nor has Mr Holmes visited you. Thus, I was able to ascertain that a cloud hangs over your friendship, and today you had intended to lay that same disagreement which exists between you."

Had I been a superstitious man, I would have been convinced that he was a reader of minds, so accurately had he described my movements, and even now my very thoughts and future plans. But my long association with Holmes has to some degree trained me in the art of following such reasoning. The direction of his gaze, fixed admiring on the bottle of whisky on my desk, confirmed my suspicion.

"That was a gift from a patient," I said, rather desperately to my ears.

My vain attempt at outfoxing him failed dismally.

"Doctor, please do not insult me," said he. "Even if I had not seen you purchase it earlier, then I would still have been able to deduce from the fact that you had it wrapped so carefully and at extra cost, that this was not destined for your consumption." He smiled again. "Or rather I should say not for your lone consumption. It is a conciliatory gift for Mr Holmes, is it not?"

I said nothing to this. It was a small act of defiance on my part, which was nevertheless a pointless exercise, since he already knew enough without any confirmation from me.

"As I say," he continued. "It does make everything so much easier, much neater, you know. And I pride myself on my neatness. A case presented to those blunderers at Scotland Yard with all the loose ends perfectly tied up makes for a quick resolution. So, shall we begin?"

He looked at me expectantly, as though he imagined I would throw myself wholeheartedly behind his proposition. In all truth, I could not move, even if I had willed it. I do not fancy myself to be a timid or uncourageous man, and yet I was proving myself to be quite the weaker of the two in this monstrous plot.

"Well?" the man persisted.

"No," said I finally finding my voice. "I will not help you."

He gave me a look of benevolent toleration, which sat ill on his unctuous features. "My dear sir, let me make it plain. One way or another, you will not live to see another dawn. What I am offering you is a choice of partner in your demise. Now, Doctor, who is it to be – Mrs Watson or Mr Holmes?"

A choice, he claimed, but really no choice at all. If I had thought I could have got to him in time and wrenched that pistol from his grasp, I would have thrown all my effort into such an act. Except that with his steady grip and his finger posed on the trigger, I was equally certain that not only would I fail, but condemn my dear wife as well.

"Shall I make it easy for you?" said the man, his impatience now sounding clearly in his voice. "But several days ago, you proved yourself willing to put your marriage before your friendship. Why should you falter now? If Mr Holmes is half the man you claim when you pen these little stories of yours, then surely our poor effort to seek his demise will fail. That must give you some consolation, surely?"

"No, it does not."

My words added a touch of steel to his pale blue eyes. "Maybe not, but it will have to do. I lose patience, sir, and time is running short. Now, Doctor, open that whisky bottle."

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_Poor Dr Watson! Whatever is he to do?_

_Continued in **III: The Deadliest Gift**_

_Reviews always gratefully received and welcomed! _


	3. III: The Deadliest Gift

_**The Case of the Assured Assassin**_

**III: The Deadliest Gift**

Given the choice at that very moment, I would have rather sliced off my hands than comply with this villain's command. I had no inkling of his intent, save that it was in some way part of his insane plot to bring death to my dearest friend.

"Do it," he said quite calmly, with the air of a man asking me to do nothing more than pour tea. The gun was raised a fraction and levelled itself somewhere in the region of my chest. "Unlike the bullet that brought an end to your career in Afghanistan, mine will certainly kill you. How is the shoulder by the way? Or is it your leg, I am never entirely sure."

"You seem to know a great deal about me," I said obstinately.

"Only what you yourself have told me. Whatever happened to that bull pup of yours? I was most curious. Such delightful creatures."

To my absolute horror, his free hand went into his coat pocket and he extracted a copy of _The Strand_, which he tossed onto the desk in front of me.

"That really tells me all I need to know about you and Mr Holmes. I can quite see why your friend had cause to remonstrate with you over your style – most florid, Doctor, but very readable."

So, here then was the source of so much of his information. I had been damned by my own pen.

"I must say your opening chapter of _The Sign of Four_ did present me with an interesting avenue of investigation. Poison, self-administered, now there would have been an irony." He chuckled, but gesture did not reach his eyes nor melt the ice within. "Now, Doctor, let us not delay. Take the bottle and open it."

Holmes would surely chide me for my use of a cliché, but in all honesty I was numb. I was aware of the world that continued to move around me, except that I no longer felt a part of it. I was aware of my arm reaching out, my hand closing around the neck of the bottle and the slow return to place it in front of me, whilst every instinct screamed out to me that what I was doing was insane.

I fumbled with the cap, my hands shaking all the while until the deed was done.

From across the desk, my opponent smiled grimly. "May I congratulate you on making an excellent albeit difficult choice, sir. Now, I think we must add a little something to this gift of yours to make it extra special and extra deadly for Mr Holmes. What poisons do you keep here, Doctor?"

"I have none," I stammered, lying poorly. "I consider them to be too dangerous."

"Then you are unique in the medical profession. No morphine, Doctor?"

"My supply has not yet arrived."

His eyebrows rose a little at this bold assertion. "Ah, well, never mind. I prefer to use my own preparation in any case. Personally," said he with a self-important sniff, "I have a preference for the older poisons – belladonna, wolf's bane and the suchlike. However, my clients are most unsubtle, and have a liking for arsenic. Crude, but effective and very easy to detect in a corpse."

"Your clients?" I echoed.

"Indeed, sir. My business is the removal of certain inconvenient individuals, discreetly and without any reflection on my clients."

"You're a murderer, a hired assassin."

He winced, as though he found the term unseemly. "I prefer facilitator, Doctor. Your friend, for example, stands in the way of a good many people, myself included. Normally I would not go to such lengths, but when my very liberty not to mention my livelihood is at risk, then I am compelled to act. It is, I am sorry to say, your misfortune that I have been forced to include you in my plans. You will accept my deepest regrets."

Here then was the reason that lay at the heart of this charade. Holmes had played a dangerous game with this man and was on the verge of losing. Worse of all, it seemed clear to me now that mine was to be the hand that brought him to his death. A small vial landed in front of me, thrown by this smiling demon, its intended purpose frighteningly obvious.

"Empty the contents into the bottle," said he smoothly. "It is a frightful waste of a fine whisky, though. Why ever did you not purchase Beaune, Doctor? That is your personal favourite, is it not?"

I hesitated long enough to hear the sound of a pistol being cocked. "You first," he said. "And then I shall go upstairs."

It is not an exaggeration to say that it was the worst moment of my life when I picked up that vial and emptied the accursed powder into the bottle. It vanished into the depths and, under his instruction, I replaced the cap and all was returned to its former state.

"That wasn't too hard, was it?" he said, eminently satisfied with my performance. "Now we must make haste to Baker Street. Do you have your keys on your person?"

As I had come this far, resistance on this minor note seemed pointless. I produced them from my pocket and held them up for him to see.

At my apparent meekness, his face took on an expression of delight. "I am so glad you have decided to co-operate, Doctor. This evening will pass all the more swiftly for it."

What I was not about to let him know was that I had every intention of making my move as soon as I was able. Even if I was unsuccessful, I had, as he had noted, every confidence that Holmes would somehow be alerted to this plot against him. I did not know how, but I was not about to go to my death without making some effort to warn my friend, whilst never endangering Mary. I had not thought this business through far enough as to how this was to be accomplished; I only knew that I had to trust to chance.

My kidnapper – for that was surely what he was – was eager for us to leave and I was bustled out at gunpoint into the hall, where I had barely time to collect my coat and hat. I noticed too late that he still wore his gloves. That meant that the only fingerprints the police would find on the bottle I was currently carrying in my medical bag would belong to me and the man from whom I had purchased it. The vial too, left carelessly on my desk for easy discovery after the deed was done, would point the finger of blame firmly in my direction.

This knowledge, more than anything he had said or the gun barrel I could feel pressing into the small of my spine, produced within me a most alarming feeling of panic. Escaping the stranglehold of guilt that was being wrapped tightly around me would be most difficult, if not impossible. I believed most fervently at that moment that I would never return here to my home, that I would never see Mary again nor hear her gentle laughter.

As if in response to my fears, as though my very thoughts had reached out to her, I heard her voice and looked up to see her slim figure appear on the landing above us.

"Do not try to warn her, Doctor," said the man in a low voice from behind me. "We have come thus far. It would be a great shame if you were to undo all your good work with some inopportune remark."

With difficulty, I cleared my throat. "I've been called to a confinement, Mary. I may be some time."

To my consternation, she started to make her way down the stairs until she was within feet of us. "Very well, John," said she. "Would you like me to save you something for supper?"

My gut knotted at her innocent question. Had she known that I would not be back to share another supper with her, it would surely have broken her heart, as surely as it was breaking mine.

"No, thank you, Mary. I don't know how long I will be." I ached to say more, but that insistent metal point in my back forced me to hold my tongue. "Don't wait up, my dear," was all I could manage.

"Then I will see you later," said she, smiling so blithely that I had to look away for fear I would betray myself. "And good wishes to your wife, sir."

It sickened me to hear her offer such words to the man who had only moments before threatened her life. He smiled that same sickly smile of his and gave a slight bow in acknowledgement of her kind thoughts.

"I know she will be in safe hands," said he. "I have every confidence in your husband. Good day to you, madam."

I was urged forward, out of the open door and into the grey light of the afternoon. A hansom cab pulled up at my call and I was ushered inside. He took the seat beside me, the barrel of his gun now digging into my ribs. As we moved away from the kerb, I looked back to the house to see Mary standing in the open doorway, waving goodbye.

All too quickly we were gone, swallowed up in the busy traffic. I tried to fix her image in my memory to sustain me through the hours to come and, found that all too fleetingly, she was already fading as fast from my mind as surely as she was fading from my sight. With such despairing thoughts blotting out all my reason, I turned my face away from the house and tried to gather my wits as we began the short journey to Baker Street.

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_Continued in __**IV: The Scene Prepared**_

_Reviews always very very appreciated!_


	4. IV: The Scene Prepared

_**The Case of the Assured Assassin**_

**IV: The Scene Prepared**

It was nearly five o'clock by the time we arrived at Baker Street. My former rooms were in darkness, something that engendered in me feelings of part relief, part dismay. Any hopes I had of making a dash for it as soon as the cab pulled up were soon thwarted by my unwelcome companion, who alighted first, paid the cabby, and then gestured for me to step out.

"Whatever you're planning, it won't work," said I.

At this, he merely laughed, leaving me feeling more impotent than ever.

Not that I had expected to feel much different. It was one of those things one says when nothing else seems appropriate. In all honesty, I was already of the opinion that his plan was fool-proof. Like this scenario, for instance, carefully stage-managed so that should anyone ask questions after the deed was done, there would be plenty of witnesses to testify to my being at Baker Street earlier in the day.

They would only have to ask old Mrs Johnston, the housekeeper for a fellow doctor several doors down, a woman with a remarkable eye for detail and an inordinate passion for gossip about her neighbours. I glanced up at her window and it did not surprise me at all to find her seated there, taking a moment from her knitting to raise her hand in greeting. And thus my fate was sealed.

I noted however that my kidnapper kept his head down, with the brim of his hat pulled low. A true professional, his face would never be noticed or even remembered. Being unremarkable had its advantages in his bloody trade.

With his gun barrel still pressed into my spine, I had little choice but to do what he ordered. I fumbled with my keys and dropped them, much to his annoyance.

"If you are trying to stall, Doctor, then you only waste your own time. Your friend is out and will not be back for at least another hour. Now, open the door."

Numbly, I obeyed. Once inside, he shut the door firmly behind us and paused to wipe his feet on the mat.

"Neatness in all things," said he in answer to my curious stare. "And the fact that I do not wish to leave any trace of my presence to alert your friend. Now, upstairs if you please."

I cannot describe the depth of my reservations as we headed up to the sitting room. At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I was sure I knew the state of mind of the condemned man taken to the gallows. Many hours stretched between now and the dawn he had promised I would not see, and how many of those hours remained to me only he knew. If I was not so fearful of the consequences, I would have vented my fury on this grinning devil at whatever cost to myself.

Reason, however, is a cautious animal. I told myself that opportunities would present themselves, without my having to risk any harm coming to Mary. I kept telling myself this, even though my confidence in such an event had long since faded.

It did not surprise me to find the sitting room in some state of disarray. Papers were draped over the sofa and numerous of Holmes' journals littered the floor. It fleetingly crossed my mind that it was a good thing indeed that Mrs Hudson was away or she may well have had a fit at the sight of the place.

"What an untidy fellow," said the man, clearly unimpressed with his surroundings. "Well, Doctor, in you go."

He fairly pushed me through the open door and I almost slipped on a carelessly flung sheaf of papers. I turned back to face him, feeling the hot flush of anger on my cheeks, and lacking the opportunity to do much about it. It did occur to me that if we prolonged this episode long enough Holmes might return early. That seemed a tactic that might work, although what I expected Holmes to do even if he did blunder into this situation, I did not know. However, it seemed like a plan of sorts and, as this villain had pointed out, if it was only my time I was wasting, then it was in a worthwhile cause.

"How did you know Holmes would not be here?" I said.

"He has gone to the wilds of Essex," said the man, taking a turn about the room to inspect its contents. "There was a murder in Maldon last night. A husband had discovered his wife was committing adultery and killed her before turning the gun on himself. A wire was sent to Mr Holmes at twelve eighteen and he left on the one thirty-three train, which was the first to leave after noon."

I made a quick mental calculation of journey times, added on an hour for travel to and from the location and likely length of Holmes' investigation, and estimated that he should be returning some time between six and half past. Somehow I had to try to fill a whole hour, surely a near impossible task.

"What makes you so sure he went to Maldon?" I asked.

"Because I followed him and then left enough time to be sure that he had in fact departed before 'collecting' you."

He chortled as he said the word and his pistol twitched upwards just a fraction in my direction. He was growing impatient. An hour was starting to feel like a very long time indeed.

"The truth is, Doctor," he went on, negating my growing need to find another topic of conversation, "this was no mere happy chance. Mr Holmes went because he suspected foul play in the Maldon murder. In fact, he went because he suspected me."

I felt my mouth go dry. "Are you saying that _you_ killed those people?"

That broad grin I was growing to loathe spread once more across his face. "Naturally. Mr Masterman – the husband, you understand – would simply not see sense. I informed him of the consequences should he not comply with my instructions, just as I have informed you, and still he would try to outwit me." The smile faded just a little. "A shame, Mrs Masterman was a lovely woman. As _your_ wife is, Doctor."

Whether it was the absence of a fire or the chill that was sweeping my body, I was suddenly aware of how cold I was. My mind was starting to swim and I was sure that if I did not sit down, I would surely fall. My tormentor did not protest when I sought the safety of a chair.

"Do you mean to say," said I, "that you killed them both and made it look like –"

"The jealous husband was to blame? Yes, that is exactly what I did. In all fairness, I offered Mr Masterman a choice first. My client wanted him disposed of quickly and without too much fuss. Well, suicide is quite simple, but Mr Masterman, he would not have it. So I was forced to adopt an alternative strategy."

I had never doubted his intent, but until that moment I realised I underestimated the man's capacity for evil. He spoke of his actions as if he had organised nothing more sinister than a garden fete. Here was no madman, but a clever, articulate individual who had turned his talents to cold-blooded murder and clearly relished his work.

"Now, Doctor," said he, "if you be so kind as to take that bottle from your bag and leave it on the table for Mr Holmes to find when he returns."

Since he had every intention of killing me when it suited his purpose, I saw no reason why I should make it easy for him. Only the thought of Mary prevented me from adopting a less obliging tack.

He beamed with pleasure at my meek compliance. "Excellent! You surprise me, sir. I did think you were going to be difficult about this affair, but you really have been most considerate."

As he spoke, he wandered behind me and the proximity of his presence made my skin crawl. I fairly jumped as his hand appeared at the side of my vision and he placed on the table before me a pen, a bottle of ink and a sheet of paper.

"It is my experience that gifts should always be accompanied with a note," said he, revelling in my discomfort. "Consider your words most carefully though, Doctor. You have done well so far and I would hate for you to undo all your good work."

Despite his warning, I saw the chance that fate had dropped into my lap. Perhaps recklessly, I dashed off the quick note as he had commanded and had to hope that he did not see through my pathetic attempt at foiling his plans.

Alas, I am not that fortunate. He picked up the sheet of paper and a look of profound disappointment came across his face.

"Now, Dr Watson, I thought we had an understanding. You would co-operate and I would not have to harm your pretty wife."

"I have written the note just as you described."

He shook his head. "'Please accept my sincerest apologies for our quarrel'," he read out. "'Perhaps we can share this whisky together later'. For you, there will be no later, Doctor. Mr Holmes must drink his poison alone." He screwed up the sheet and stuffed it into his pocket. "Very well, I suppose I must give you the benefit of the doubt as you have been so helpful thus far. I can forgive one slip." Another sheet of paper was slapped down in front of me. "Try again."

"I don't know what to say."

"I'm sure you'll think of something."

He wandered away over to the fireplace, where his attention seemed caught by the numerous curios that Holmes had collected over the years. With his back turned, I was torn between making a dash for the door, which in all probability I would never reach, and ensuring that, whatever happened to me, Holmes would not drink this poisoned offering.

I settled for the latter.

The cap of the whisky bottle came away easily in my hand and I quickly tipped a quantity of black ink into the contents. The brown wrapping concealed the discoloured liquid from view and I pushed the lid back on as best I could. By the time he had returned to my side, I had completed a passable message, expressing my regret at our disagreement and the hope that he would drink to my health in my absence.

I was congratulated on my effort and told to get up as he returned the writing implements to the desk. I gathered up my bag and got shakily to my feet. With the gun in my back again, I was pushed unceremoniously towards the door. I was almost across the threshold when he told me to stop and ordered me back into the room.

The look in his eyes was dangerous, like one teetering on the edge of a violent rage. For a second, I thought that he must be aware of my actions, but I could not see how. Visibly, I saw him regain control of his emotions and the angry creases around his eyes softened as that sickly smile took hold once more.

"We have forgotten something," said he, backing over to where the decanter stood. He returned with a glass and placed it on the table. "We should leave Mr Holmes a sample of this fine whisky ready prepared for him, so that he drinks it straight away. Why don't you pour some in the glass, Doctor?"

He gestured with his gun for me to do his bidding, but I could not move. Once that liquid appeared in the glass, he would know what I had done, if he did not know already.

"Do it," he said, his tone venomous, his grip on the gun as steady as a rock.

"He won't drink it," I said hastily. "He never touches whisky until later in the evening. This will simply go to waste."

He pursed his lips. "I must thank you for your concern, but I know what I am doing. Pour the whisky into the glass."

The moments before failure is revealed to the rest of the world I consider to be worse than the revelation itself. I had to will myself to pick up the bottle and force myself to tip it towards the glass, knowing all the while that this would in all probability be the last thing I ever did.

Blue-black liquid sloshed into the glass and the agony was over. I set the bottle down and waited for the inevitable, knowing I had condemned Mary as surely as I myself was condemned.

"Well," said the villain, still smiling for the great amusement he found in my predicament, "that wasn't very clever, was it, Doctor?"

"What did you expect me to do?"

"I expected you to honour your side of our bargain!"

"We have no bargain," I returned, finally glad to give voice to my frustrated anger. "You have held me at gunpoint and forced me to be your accomplice in the attempted murder of my friend and colleague."

"'Friend and colleague'," he echoed, injecting the words with disdain. "And this is the creature whose well-being you place above that of your wife?"

My soul sank. "Leave her out of this."

"No, Doctor, she is very much a part of this!" he retorted. "You have gambled with her life and lost!"

* * *

_Continued in __**V: The Light in the Window**_

_Reviews all gratefully received and always welcome!_


	5. V: The Light in the Window

_**The Case of the Assured Assassin**_

**V: The Light in the Window**

As strange as it may sound, at that moment, with a gun pointed at me and the certainty of death ringing in my ears, my only thought was what Mrs Hudson was going to say about the mess my being shot through the head was going to make. Ironic really, considering all the years I had spent trying to keep the place clean.

My would-be murderer, however, it seemed had other ideas. With a deep, calming breath, he lowered his pistol a fraction.

"I should kill you for such insolence," said he.

"Then why don't you?" I retorted.

The smile returned to his face. "Do you want to redeem yourself, Doctor?"

I did not answer. I was heartily sick of playing this game with such a villain.

"Come now, sir, do not sulk," said he. "Your strategy was a good one. Had I not noticed that you had failed to replace the lid properly on the whisky bottle, then you would have succeeded. But you see, Doctor, I always win in the end. You couldn't imagine the things people have done to try to escape their obligations."

"I would wager that I could."

His eyes narrowed. "Do you? Well, sir, it seems you have an obligation to me."

"I have no such thing."

"To your wife, then. One last chance to save her," said he, holding up the index finger of his free hand. "What would you do for that, I wonder?"

His gaze lowered to the table and the inky glass of tainted whisky. He stared at it for a long moment, before chuckling to himself as he looked back at me.

"Drink it," he said.

I stared at him hard, hoping I had heard him wrong.

"No, Doctor, no mistake," said he. "Pick up the glass and drink it."

"No," I said, my voice suddenly sounding hoarse to my own ears.

"Not even for Mary? Isn't she worth a noble sacrifice?"

"You've already said you plan to kill her, so why should I go along with anything you say?"

"Because I have to power over life and death," he snapped. "Her life or her death – the choice is yours!"

In all truth, I did not believe him when he said he would spare her life. I was almost certain that he would kill her, whatever the outcome of these events, whether I was compliant or not. At the same time, I could not take the chance that he would not keep his word. If there was the slimmest chance of saving her, I had to take it.

Never has time seemed to move so slowly between the making of decision and then putting it into action. The glass was cold to the touch and the mixture inside slopped about as I lifted it with shaking hand. I tried not to think of the after-effects of this act of sheer folly. I tried not to think of what others would say when they found me, poisoned by a glass of whisky, ink and arsenic, for whatever reason this fiend would invent. I tried instead to think of Mary as I raised the glass to my mouth, shut my eyes and waited for the touch of death on my lips.

"Stop."

My heart surely skipped a beat when, at the sound of his voice, I opened my eyes to see that a hand had appeared between the glass and my mouth. He had stopped me and I did not know why. The glass he took from me and tipped its contents into the nearest plant pot. I watched him, feeling my heart pounding in my chest and hearing the blood thundering in my ears, and wondering what he intended next.

"Very well done, Doctor," said he. "You have been tested and found not wanting. It is gratifying to know the limits of one's collaborator."

"A test?" I echoed unbelievingly. "You wanted to know if I would be prepared to aid you in my own destruction?"

"And you performed beautifully. In truth, I expected another show of defiance, but you did most surprise me. You are a rare man, Doctor. Many talk of laying down their lives for another, but balk at the final moment. Their want of courage disgusts me. You, however, have earned a little of my respect. Providing you behave from hereon in, I will allow your wife to live, quite unharmed in any way."

My nerves were in tatters and my soul seething with utter loathing for this despicable creature. I was being manipulated in the worst way imaginable and I had not the wit to break free. The depth of my rage was to some extent frightening; had I been able, I would have grabbed that grinning demon and wrung his scrawny neck.

To stop myself demanded all my self-control. Despite his fine words, he was not infallible. One opportunity had presented itself and, although my attempt had failed, I was sure another would come my way. Self-sacrifice was one thing, but rushing to one's end where the final outcome was doubtful was another. As the saying goes, where there is life, there has to be hope, and it was clear to me now that I had a little of both still in my favour.

"Well," said the man, "as much as I would like to tarry and discuss your finer points, your friend will be home soon and other arrangements must be made."

So saying, he reached into his trouser pocket and pulled forth a set of keys, which he threw to me. I recognised them immediately, having seen them in the hand of their owner many times before.

"These are Holmes' keys," said I incredulously. "Where did you get them?"

"Why, from Mr Holmes himself," came his reply. "Your friend is not the only one to employ Baker Street Irregulars. A shilling bought the services of a street urchin to lift these from his pocket yesterday."

The implication of that was astonishing. He had obtained for himself access to Baker Street, whether I was willing to play along with this coercion or not. This was his secondary plan, for clearly my reprieve from death meant that he still had a preference for marking me out as the culprit.

"You did think of everything," I said.

"In my business, I cannot afford not to. Now, Doctor, open the door of Mr Holmes' desk."

Resistance had little to offer, but more verbal banter and more threats against my wife's continued good health and existence. I did as he asked and together we stared down at the untidy contents of the drawer.

"Who is the woman?" he asked, running his finger over the lovely face of Irene Adler.

With those words, he had betrayed his limits. Fool that I was for not realising it sooner, but if he was basing his intimate knowledge of us on my writings, then the view he had of Holmes and myself was already outdated. If I ever got the opportunity to write up that particular case or indeed any case ever again, which in all probability seemed unlikely given my present predicament, I made a mental note to be much more careful in choosing what I did and did not reveal about certain aspects of our lives.

"Some relative of Holmes'," I said, thinking quickly. "No one important."

This seemed to satisfy his curiosity. "It is well that a man should have at least one woman to mourn him. Although why he should keep a picture of such a beauty in a locked drawer –"

"I've never asked him," I said, interrupting him. "I wouldn't know. What do you want me to do?"

He eyed me oddly. "Do not panic, Doctor. We will be gone long before your friend returns."

He gestured with his gun to the several coloured bottles that contained the infernal drugs of which Holmes' usage has on occasion resulted in heated words between us.

"Pick them up," said he.

Something he had said earlier in my surgery came to my mind, when he had spoken of a plan involving a self-administered poison. Little was he to know that a constant stream of work and much persuasion by me had resulted in the suspension of Holmes' reliance for the time being. I suspected it would be temporary, for as soon as boredom returned, I had no doubt he would seek out his former vice. For the moment, judging from the state of these bottles, still filled almost the top just as I had noticed some weeks earlier, it seemed that he was resisting the urge.

As small victories went, it was significant because it was something of which this assassin would be ignorant. That being the case, I saw how I could divert his diabolical plans to protect my friend from immediate murder.

"These bottles," said I, "you want to me to poison them?"

I saw instantly that I had overplayed my hand. Behind the thick lenses, his eyes took on the look of doubt.

"I am always suspicious when my accomplices are too helpful," said he.

"I am eager to be done with this, nothing more."

"No, Doctor, you hope to confound me. Do not think I am ignorant of your motives, and more importantly, do not try my patience. That we need to resort to such measures at all is entirely due to your misguided attempt to warn your friend. I have let that pass; I will not be so forgiving again. Now, go over to the sideboard."

I did as commanded, feeling worse than useless that my ruse had been so easily uncovered. At every turn, I was trapped and forced into a deed which was so heinous to my soul that I was forced to question whether it would have been a mercy on us all had I drunk that poisoned whisky. At least then, I would have only had my own death on my conscience.

I could guess where this was leading and it came as no surprise when I was told to empty the contents of the bottles into the whisky decanter. I did it, hating my all too-willing compliance and my inability to do much about the situation.

"Why this?" I asked belligerently, as I replaced the stopper on the lethal combination of drugs and alcohol.

"Yes, not very original, I admit," said he. "But then you used my supply of arsenic earlier and all I have left is a concentrate of wolfsbane, which I am saving for another client."

He produced a phial from his inside coat pocket and uncorked it to delicately sniff the contents. "A not unpleasant smell, but detectable all the same."

He offered it to me and I backed away from the foulness of it.

"The effects are most grievous, not a clean nor quick death at all. Now," said he, returning the bottle to his pocket, "the other decanter, empty it."

"You expect me to drink it?"

He offered me a weary look. "In the plant pot, Doctor, do use some common sense. When Mr Holmes returns, I don't want him to have to think too much about his choice of liquor."

He watched me perform this deed and then nodded back to the desk. "Fill the bottles with soda and then return them to the drawer. Oh, and make sure you lock it. All must be exactly as it was when Mr Holmes left this morning."

I was carrying out his orders numbly, but clearly my brain was still working feverishly on the problem, for as I locked the drawer, it occurred to me that I might be able to leave some warning yet. Even without his keys, I knew that Holmes had a spare, which I had had occasion to borrow in the past. If he came to this drawer when he returned, as was his usual custom, then I might be able to leave him some warning as to a presence in his room while he had been absent.

With the serrated edge of the key, I dragged it down along the surface of the drawer from the keyhole as quietly as I could, leaving a raw gash of wood in its wake. I have never felt so much joy at such a wanton act of destruction, but now I was certain that I had finally found a way to thwart this villain's scheme. Holmes would see the scratch, would know the drawer had been tampered with, would look inside and see that all was normal, and then would investigate each item thoroughly until he found the soda-filled bottles. He at least would be saved from a drug-induced death; quite what would happen in my own circumstances was another matter.

He took the keys away from me and thrust them into his pocket. The tainted whisky bottle and glass I was made to return to my medical bag and, with one final glance around to make sure all was as we had found it, the gaslight was extinguished and I was forced out of the room and down the stairs.

"Where now?" I asked as we stepped out into the chill evening air.

"Across the street," said he, with a nudge of his gun barrel in my back to make me move.

I had hoped Mrs Johnston was still at her post, but with supper to prepare, she was absent from her window seat. There was no one to observe our progress across the busy street and down the side road, until we came to the service passage that served the rear of the houses that abutted Baker Street on the opposite side to our rooms.

About half way along the rubbish-strewn alley, we entered through a low gate into a dirty yard, where foetid water bubbled up through the drains and the smell of rotting matter tainted the air. There were no lights to illuminate the area and it took me several minutes before I found the key that fitted the lock of the door from the bunch he had passed to me.

We entered into a dark passage, lit only by the gloomy light cast by the street lamps through the windows of the front door some little way ahead. As we progressed, I was aware that there was no carpet on the floor, as the sound of my footsteps was noisy indeed in the quiet interior. Our destination was a side room with precious little furniture, save for a bare desk on which lay a length of rope and an old straight-backed wooden chair with its back to the window.

"Sit, Doctor," said he. "With all this excitement, you must be feeling tired."

Something told me that if I did sit, it was a fair bet to wager that I might never rise from the chair again.

"And if I don't?" said I.

He let out a very audible sigh. "Is it really necessary to keep torturing yourself like this? You do not have to prove your courage to me. I know you love your wife; your concern for her safety this afternoon has been most touching. But now, however, you can do nothing for either her or your friend. You have successfully completed the hardest part of your task. Now, sit, rest and wait."

"Wait for what?" I retorted. "For you to kill me?"

"No, Doctor, not just yet. I have no intention of dragging your lifeless corpse back to Baker Street. But," he added maliciously, "I have an intimate knowledge of anatomy and, through careful practice, I have effected a method of wounding with a single shot that causes exquisite pain without killing. Now, as surely as you hope for salvation after death, I suggest you take a seat."

Put like that, I would have been a fool not to comply. I sat and immediately my arms were wrenched behind me. I felt a thick cord being wrapped around my wrists and tightened so viciously that the bones of the back of my hands pressed into each other in a manner most uncomfortable. Finally, the rope was passed around my chest and I was firmly bound to the chair.

"You asked for what we wait?" said he, beaming down at me and breathing hard from his efforts. "Do you know where we are?"

"One of the offices that overlooks Baker Street, I assume."

"Excellent deduction. Yes, indeed we are. I took this place a month ago with the express purpose of keeping watch on 221B."

With a strength with which I should not have credited him, he dragged both the chair and me around until I faced the window. The wall hid me from passers-by, but from my position I had a clear view down the street to my former rooms several houses along on the opposite side. The upstairs windows were still in darkness, telling that Holmes had yet to return.

"Wait for the light, Doctor," said he. "Wait for the light in the window, for then your friend is dead."

Only my secret knowledge prevented me from having to face the possible and awful consequences of my actions. I did not reply to this taunt, which seemed to please him, as though he believed my spirit had finally succumbed to his dominance.

"Well, now, I think I have time enough for a light supper," he went on, consulting his pocket watch. "You will stay here and keep watch. Oh, yes, I meant to ask – would you be so very offended if I gagged you? The sisters who rented this office to me live upstairs and are quite deaf, but I fear your shouts might attract attention from outside."

"Am I in any position to object?"

He smiled. "Granted you have a point."

A thick wad of material was pressed into my mouth and the loose ends tied at the back of my head. I was left with the unpleasant taste of mothballs and a rising feeling of nausea.

"I will bid you farewell for now, Doctor," said he, patting me on the shoulder. "They do say this place is haunted, you know, in which case you won't be alone for long."

With that parting shot, he was gone, locking the door behind him. I heard his footsteps retreat along the passage, a door thudded in the distance and then all was quiet, save for the sound of my laboured breathing. I was uncomfortable, stiff and fast growing cold from the chill gusts of air that were creeping in through a crack in the window pane. More than that, I was completely disorientated. I had no notion of how much time had passed or how much remained to me. I knew I had to escape somehow, but first I had to be free of my bonds, which in itself was no easy matter.

From what I could see of the room, there was nothing in it which would provide me with a sharp edge to sever the ropes. In my medical bag, however, there was a scalpel and its razor-edge should make short work of the cord. Reaching it was another matter. I could make the chair rock and move back and forth, but that seemed to be the limit of my movement.

As depressing as it was, I knew any attempt at freeing myself had to be my responsibility. No one knew where I was, no help was likely to come from the deaf sisters upstairs, and the passers-by were oblivious to my plight.

And then, to add to my woes further, I glanced across at 221B.

A light had appeared in the upstairs window.

* * *

_Continued in **VI: Seconds from Death**_

_Reviews always warmly welcomed and gratefully received!_


	6. VI: Seconds from Disaster

_**The Case of the Assured Assassin**_

**VI: Seconds from Disaster**

Like a lighthouse on a stormy night, the glow from the upstairs windows at 221B cut through the darkness, two small rectangles of light on an otherwise dull and gloomy street. The meaning of this was clear enough – Holmes had returned. I strained to see his familiar silhouette move across the drawn blinds and was soon rewarded for my patience.

Far from enjoying the guilty relief I had expected and the certainty that this affair would soon be at an end, I found my brain engaged on the most unnerving of exercises of considering all the possible avenues this situation now might take. I tried to tell myself that Holmes was a man of habit and that it was unthinkable for him not to go to his desk to relieve himself of the weighty magnifier that he routinely carried.

Unbidden memories dashed into my mind of occasions when he had failed to do so and the resulting search the next morning to find the egregious glass, which then invariably turned up in his pocket. This variable had not occurred to me at the time when I had made my clumsy attempt at warning him.

Added to that the fact that he would be tired after the long journey from Essex, and I could quite easily see him slipping into his dressing gown, pouring himself a drink and taking his usual seat without ever going to the desk. Suddenly what had seemed like a good plan was shot through with holes.

No light of good fortune shone from those upstairs windows, I realised now, but a will-o'-the-wisp, a harbinger of doom, ready to lead the unwary to their deaths. One thing was certain; I had to get free and warn him of the terrible danger he faced from that lethal mixture I had poured into his whisky.

How to effect my escape, that was the problem. My bonds were tight, there was no doubting that. In my frustration, I struggled in vain and succeeded only in making the chair creak and groan in protest at my efforts. I was sure, however, that I had felt something give.

I had not given it a great deal of attention when I had been bundled into the room, but now it occurred to me that this chair was quite old and poorly made. Against a man of my weight and build, it should put up little resistance.

Accordingly, I tested my theory by thrusting my weight against the chair back and was gratified to feel some movement in the four thin wooden spindles to my rear. Again and again, I tried and was rewarded with a slight loosening of the bonds around my chest. Even so, I was painfully aware that this could take all night, while I was working to a limited timetable.

Since back and forth had resulted in some success, I decided to investigate what damage I had caused. My fingers were almost completely numb from the cold and lack of circulation, but I was able to discern that I had succeeded in loosening at least one spindle from its groove. I took a firm grip on it and pulled upwards.

It lurched up and the wooden bar at its top jabbed me painfully between my shoulder blades. I sought out the next, found that it too was starting to separate from the rest of the chair and completed its liberation. I gave wholehearted thanks to the maker of the chair for his shoddy workmanship as the chair back came free and fell to the floor, leaving me able to rise from my seat.

At least now I was mobile, although I had yet to find a way to loose my hands and get the foul-tasting gag from my mouth. I had tried not to think too closely about the curious mixture of rotten fish and ammonia I could taste nor where this particular piece of material had previously been employed. I pride myself on having a strong stomach, but if my adventures with Holmes had taught me anything, it was that the strongest man could still choke to death on his own vomit when the gag reflex became uncontrollable.

My attention instead turned to my medical bag, still where I had left it. Clearly, my captor had not thought it important or a means for my escape, and I intended to capitalise on this stroke of luck.

Working from behind in the dark proved to be a more difficult than I had imagined. The catch suddenly became most intractable and by the time I had managed to open the bag, I was perspiring freely from the sheer effort of the task. I delved inside and my probing fingers found glass bottles aplenty, but not the scalpel for which I searched. I was certain it had been in there the last time I looked; in fact, it was a spare which I left in the bag for emergencies. I calmed my fears, tried again and this time found it, with its blade embedded in a protective cork.

Manoeuvring it proved another difficulty. No sooner was the blade free than I had stabbed myself several times and sliced off several of my cuff buttons. By trial and painful error, I succeeded in pressing the blade against something that was neither cloth nor flesh and began to saw.

As sharp as it was, the task seemed to take forever. My hands were sticky and slippery with blood from my earlier clumsiness, and several times the scalpel almost slid from my grasp. Finally, however, I felt a definite loosening of my bonds and, after a concerted effort, the rope broke and I was free. I dragged the gag from my mouth and wondered how I was to overcome my next obstacle, escape from the room.

Between captivity and Baker Street stood two doors, both of which were locked and unlikely to give way without a fight, if the internal door of the room I was currently testing my weight against was any good judge. I was on the verge of renewed frustration that I come this far only to be confounded, when my eye turned again to the glow of the outside world and the window.

Without a second thought, I picked up what remained of the chair and hurled it through the plate-glass. It shattered in an impressive array of shiny splinters that rained down on the pavement beyond. I knocked out the rest of the fragments with my bag and proceeded through the impromptu opening.

My sudden appearance in Baker Street was met with a frightened whinny from the horse of a passing Hansom cab and an alarmed cry from a startled woman. Iron-clad hooves raked the air in front of my face as the horse reared, causing the cabman to pour foul oaths on my head. With his curses still ringing in my ears, I darted across the street and to the door of 221B.

I still had my keys and, before I had time to think, I was inside, yelling out for Holmes and dashing up the stairs two at a time. No answer came to my call, save the stately chimes of the grandfather clock below, tolling out half past the seventh hour. Barely had I managed to get one foot through the door of the sitting room than my foot struck something that rolled away, spilling the dregs of a dusky amber liquid across the rug.

Away it spun and I watched it until it came to rest against an outstretched hand by the foot of the sofa.

It would not be an exaggeration to say that I aged ten years in that fraction of a second before the glass stopped its lazy progress. My worst fears were confirmed; I was too late and by my hand was Holmes poisoned.

My army years had inured to dealing with many kinds of medical emergencies, but still I had to force myself to round the sofa to face the results of my actions. I found Holmes sprawled on the floor and, as I had surmised, he had changed into his dressing gown, the sleeve of which was pulled back on his left arm. I knelt beside him and reached for his bare wrist. His hand was limp in mine as I pressed hard into the tangle of tendons and veins, trying to find a pulse.

Logic told me that not enough time had sufficiently passed for the lethal mixture of drugs and alcohol to have worked their deadly purpose. Trouble was, I had no way of knowing whether the drugs I had poured into the decanter were concentrated or diluted for use. Then there was knowing how much he had consumed and when he had consumed it.

By my reckoning, my escape bid must have taken the better part of an hour, which meant Holmes had had that long for the poison to have taken effect. At best, he was unconscious, which meant if I could wake him, I could administer an emetic to rid what I could from his system. At worst, if he been here for the full hour and if the drugs had been in concentrated form and if he had had several drinks, he could already be dead, as my failure to find his pulse was fast suggesting.

"You can't be dead, curse you!" I yelled at him. "Wake up, Holmes!"

I was about to turn him to check for sign of breath, when a cold, hard presence nestled itself into the back of my neck.

"Is he dead, Doctor?"

In my haste, I had forgotten to close the downstairs door. Our assassin was back and I had delivered us both into his hands.

I was so angry that I forgot all restraint and was up, my arm swinging for the gun, before he had time to react. As valiant attempts went, it proved neither wise nor successful. Barely was I halfway up, then something hit me hard across the shoulders and I too ended up sprawled on the rug beside Holmes. He had not lied when he had claimed to have seen it all before and had dealt the blow that had felled me with the butt of his gun.

"Foolish," said he reproachfully. "I repeat, is he dead?"

It was all I could do to nod and all my bile rose at the sight of his smile of triumph.

"Get up," he said, "and take a seat at the desk."

My limbs seemed to have lost all solidity and I was reduced to an undignified crawl that ended in my being dragged upright and sat in the chair. He stood at my side and at a safe distance inspected the damage to my cut hands.

"I must congratulate you on your escape," said he. "I was about to order my coffee when I saw you make your dash. Although in truth, I had not anticipated such a rash performance from you considering the terms of our bargain."

"What did you expect?" I retorted, somewhat shakily.

"I expected you to sit there and wait for my return. But what's done is done. Here you are, the deed is done, and now all we have to do is to complete the final act."

He took a blank sheet of paper from the pile and placed it in front of me.

"You will write to my dictation."

"A suicide note?"

"A few well-chosen words of contrition, Doctor. No loose ends, remember. You have poisoned your friend and, unable to live with that knowledge, you end your own life. All very neat for Scotland Yard to come to the obvious conclusion. Now pick up your pen and write."

I can say in all honesty that I no longer cared what became of me. I was sick at heart and sick at what I had done. I had tried my level best to defeat this villain and had failed so miserably and completely that Holmes lay dead and I was soon to join him. No matter that Lestrade and the others would find this scenario impossible to believe; the evidence would be too perfect for them to believe otherwise.

"'For all I have done'," he dictated, "'I am truly sorry'. There, short and succinct. Don't forget to sign it, Doctor."

To my utter disgust, I did it, telling myself that one of us at least would come out of this alive. As I lay down my pen, the gun barrel brushed against my right temple.

"I'm sorry about this," said he. "You have been a most interesting opponent, both resourceful and cunning. Your one weakness has been your dog-like devotion and loyalty, which under different circumstances would be admirable."

"What of Mary?" I asked quickly. "You said you would not harm her."

"And I will keep my word, have no fear for her safety. Despite your pathetic attempts to thwart my plans, you have proved most useful. As for you, the reward for your compliance in this matter will be a quick death."

I shut my eyes and counted out the seconds to oblivion as he cocked the gun and pressed it hard against the side of my head.

* * *

_Continued in __**VII: Companions in Death**_

_Reviews always welcome and very much appreciated!_


	7. VII: Companions in Death

**_The Case of the Assured Assassin_**

**VII: Companions in Death**

To have come so far only to meet with an ignominious death was galling. That I had been meek enough to allow it to happen was far more so. By my deeds was my friend dead and with him died that hope of the innocents and maltreated who had sought his advice and guidance in the hour of their need. If ever a man was damned, then it was me.

For all the promises of a quick death, however, it was taking some time to perform. I had counted five long seconds already and I wondered if this was another of his games, that I would be reprieved to commit yet another foul deed.

The answer came with the sound of another gun being cocked and a firm, deadly, and wonderfully familiar voice speaking from a point slightly to my right behind me.

"Pull that trigger," said Sherlock Holmes, "and your death will even quicker."

Such a flood of relief and joy washed over me that I quite forgot I still had a gun to my head. A hand came to rest on my shoulder and prevented my near rise.

"Steady, Watson, do not move for the present," said he. "Lay down your gun, Weaver."

At last I had a name to fit that demonic face, no longer the very image of evil, but now fixed with innate and incredulous horror.

"You were dead," he stammered.

At the side of my head, I felt the gun start to twitch. That self-control on which he prided himself was rapidly slipping.

"No," came the assured reply. "I have played you as you have played others. And this time you have lost."

Weaver began a nervous laugh. "No, Mr Holmes, I have still the power to kill your friend."

"Then be sure that you will not outlive him by another second."

"Should that matter to me? You would have me hang, but a bullet would be quicker."

"Not if you were merely wounded. They would still drag you to the gallows, Weaver."

Again, he chuckled. "A most entertaining thought. However, I have seen hanged men and it is not a fate to which I am partial. Let me leave and we shall say no more about the matter."

"That is not an option I would ever countenance," said Holmes.

"Then we have a stalemate. Although, in truth, I have the advantage. You would no more stand by and let your friend be killed than the good Doctor here willingly aided me. Put down your gun, Mr Holmes."

In the wasteland of silence that followed, I could feel the blood hammering in my ears and sense the tight band of anxiety that had fastened itself around my gut. I was sure that if Holmes capitulated, then we would neither of us ever leave this room alive.

For myself, this wild see-saw from hope to despair was starting to pall. I was tired, aching and sick of the indecision.

Perhaps he judged me a spent force, given the ordeal to which had subjected me over the past few hours. Perhaps his attention was too wrapt up with his intended victim to concern himself too much with someone he had considered a mere incidental.

Certainly he had not anticipated my sideways thrust towards him from the chair and our subsequent tumble to the ground. He struck his head on the side of the desk as we went down, stunning him into inaction, and the full force of my weight bearing down on him knocked the air from his lungs and the gun from his grasp without his ever getting off a shot. I was consumed by a red fury of such magnitude that my hands were at his throat in an instant, squeezing the very life from his foul soul.

With his eyes bulging and his tongue lolling out of his mouth, it was only the restraining hand of Holmes that prevented me from finishing him.

"Watson," said he, "do not stoop to his level. You are no murderer."

Those words restored sanity to my fevered brain. I reluctantly relinquished my hold on his neck and backed away from him.

"Would you be so kind as to raise the blind?" said Holmes. "Lestrade is waiting for the signal and I have no intention of spending more time in the presence of this person for any longer than is necessary."

I had complied with worse instructions that day and so did as he asked. Weaver was struggling to a sitting position and his beady eyes beheld us with such malice that if looks could kill, as the saying goes, then we should have both been struck dead.

"Who is he, Holmes?"

"His name is Stanley Weaver, a solicitor by day, an assassin by night. I have traced his hand in over thirty killings spread across the country, each given the appearance of suicides or murders with the killer conveniently struck by such remorse that their lifeless corpse is too found at the scene of the crime."

"Like the Mastermans."

"Yes, exactly like them," said Holmes, neither his gaze nor his pistol wavering from the seated villain. "A most devoted couple by all accounts, and yet with one stroke are their lives and reputations pulled to shreds by this _creature_ that would dare to call itself a member of the human race."

From beyond the sitting room came a sound like a herd of cattle charging up the stairs. The door was flung open and a red-faced Lestrade and several burly constables charged into the room.

"Do you have him?" asked Lestrade, panting wildly. "Is everyone safe and well?"

"Yes to both of those questions," said Holmes. "He's all yours, Lestrade. Would you mind removing this foul wretch from my sight?"

"Gladly," said he. "Here, Constable, get the derbies on him."

Duly cuffed and hauled to his feet, Weaver the man cut a less than impressive figure than the nameless assassin of before. Looking at him now, I was wholeheartedly ashamed that I had not played my hand sooner.

"Well, Weaver," said Lestrade, with considerable satisfaction. "It looks like we've got you bang to rights. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I will not hang," he growled.

"Oh, won't you now? Well, see about that."

Weaver's gaze abruptly turned back to Holmes.

"The Devil take you, Mr Sherlock Holmes," said he.

"No, Mr Weaver, I think he will be more than delighted with you." He handed the assassin's gun to Lestrade. "You will need this, Inspector. Something to add to your museum at Scotland Yard of the infamous and vanquished."

"Right you are, sir. We'll label this as the gun of the assassin who tried and failed to kill you."

"As you wish, Inspector," said Holmes with a smile. "Although I have no particular wish to appear in this affair. You have your man and, with further interrogation, you should have no difficulty in discovering the full extent of his bloody trade. Let it end there."

Lestrade beamed with gratitude. "As you wish, Mr Holmes. Well, good night, gentleman. Get him out, Constable."

The policeman tried to force Weaver forward, but he resisted.

"I will not be the last, Holmes," he snarled. "There will be others, mark my words."

"Oh, I do not doubt it."

"But mine will be the credit. I will have companions for my death!"

In a lightning move, he had shrugged the attending constable aside and made a grab for the gun. He tried to wrestle it from Lestrade's hand and the pair fought for control before a shot resounded and a bullet whipped past my ear and smashed the mirror on the mantle. Only when a truncheon landed squarely on Weaver's head did his struggle cease.

Amidst a good deal of noise, broken glass and general upheaval, my concern was for Lestrade and the blood I could see running down the side of his face. The constables hauled Weaver from the room and I was left to tend the dazed Inspector, whom I helped over to the sofa.

"Is he badly hurt?" Holmes inquired.

"No, it looks worse than it is," said I, examining his forehead where the bullet had grazed him. "He was lucky."

Lestrade stared hard at me. "What?"

"I said, you were lucky," I repeated.

He returned a blank look.

"Can you hear me at all?"

"Mabel?" he said. "Whatever do you mean, Dr Watson? She died years ago."

"He's been temporarily deafened by the blast coming so close to his ears," I explained to Holmes. "It will wear off soon enough. He'll be all right."

"What?" Lestrade said, straining forward to catch my words.

"I said, you'll be all right."

He nodded and pulled a grim smile. "Oh, he put up a fight, that's for sure."

I collected a few supplies from my bag and began to tend the Inspector's injury. Pointedly, I did not ask Holmes the obvious questions that were burning on the tip of my tongue, not least because I felt he owed me an explanation that he would have to give either freely or not at all.

I knew he was waiting, but then I can be equally stubborn. He eventually gave up and went over to the sideboard, where he occupied himself for a moment or two before returning with several glasses.

"For the shock," he said, offering one to Lestrade.

I plucked it from his grasp. "What is it?"

Holmes gave me a tolerant look. "Just a little brandy, Watson. I've opened a new bottle. Not as fine as the one you so carelessly poured away, but it will suffice. Would you like one?"

My nerves were shaken enough to warrant some fortification, so I accepted his offering.

"Well?" said he. "Aren't you curious about this night's work?"

"Curious? Holmes, I'm outraged! I thought you were dead. Worse still, you let me believe it!"

"No, that was your mistake. You panicked, Doctor."

"I most certainly did not!"

"I do not blame you nor question your undoubted skill. You burst into this room fully expecting to find me dead and that is exactly what you found. I had presented you with a bare wrist ready for your examination and that it is the one to which you were naturally drawn."

"Yes, but how, Holmes? I could find no pulse."

"Had you taken up my other hand, my ruse would have been easily uncovered." He rolled up his left sleeve further to reveal the length of twine he had secured around his upper arm as an impromptu tourniquet. "Would you mind?" said he, gesturing to it. "I've quite lost all feeling in my hand and this is dreadfully tight."

He let out an audible sigh of relief when I released him. "Thank you," said he. "Of course you have every right to be angry."

"Yes, I think I do. In the past few hours, I have been threatened, menaced, tormented, manipulated, provoked, bound –"

"Watson, there is a thesaurus on the shelf if you wish to extend your vocabulary further."

This treatment of my ordeal in so casual a manner was tantamount to provocation itself.

"Holmes, I thought I'd killed you. How do you think that made me feel?"

"I don't know, Doctor. Disappointed, perhaps? Mildly aggrieved? By the way, exactly how were you planning to commit this foul deed?"

He had settled himself in his chair and proceeded to light himself a pipe.

"The decanter was poisoned, as well you know."

"Yes," said he, calmly enough. "But that was Weaver's doing, not yours. I know we had argued, but murder over such a trifle? Besides, poisoning hardly seems your style, as you have just so ably demonstrated in your spirited attempt to wring the life out of that wretch. Unless of course you have something else planned for my demise?"

He smiled as he said it, but the humour was lost on me.

"It's not in the slightest bit amusing," said I. "He made me poison your decanter. He said…" I could hardly bring myself to say it. "He said he would harm Mary if I did not."

Holmes' expression had considerably sobered. "I know, my dear fellow. I had deduced that to be his method. He made you choose between us."

"Yes."

"Well, your selection was most admirable."

"You could have been killed because of my choice."

He considered this for a moment. "I think not. When one tangles with criminality, it is always well to be one step ahead. It may surprise you to know that I left Baker Street this afternoon with the firm conviction that an attempt would later be made on my life."

With Lestrade's wound tended, I sank into a chair, finally succumbing to the weariness of the day. "You did?"

Holmes nodded. "I suspected some such plot was afoot when my keys were stolen the other day."

"Weaver has them."

"I thought as much. Remind me to retrieve them later. Mrs Hudson was insisting on having the locks changed at my expense."

I smiled at that thought in spite of myself, imagining what our indomitable landlady's reaction must have been at this unwelcome piece of news.

"Then came the telegram about the Masterman murders at Maldon," Holmes continued. "I was well aware that I was being followed and that my shadow had dogged my footsteps all the way to the station, so I was compelled to take the train twenty miles into the Essex countryside, just to be sure that he was not still on my tail."

"You knew he was there?"

"Yes. I must explain to you one day the theory of trailing a person. I myself am quite practised in the art, so that I am immediately aware when I become the subject. Weaver was good."

"But not as good as you."

"Quite so. Knowledge being power, I had no intention of overplaying my hand. I allowed him to believe in my ignorance of his presence and so set out apparently for Maldon in the belief that he would set some trap for me in these rooms on my return."

"How did you know he would not try something on the train?"

Holmes shook his head. "Not his style, Watson. His murders are invariably domestic affairs. Plus, he had my keys. I made a careful note of the appearance of this room before I left, so I of course I noticed immediately that the brandy decanter was empty, with the obvious conclusion that someone wished for me to drink the whisky."

"What about the desk? You did notice the mark I left?"

He was up on his feet and over to inspect the damage to the drawer in an instant.

"Watson, how very careless of you!" said he reprovingly, running his finger over the scratch. "I do declare you've just devalued this fine piece of Chippendale furniture with such vandalism. What on earth possessed you?"

"I thought you would notice it and investigate the contents," I replied, feeling somewhat embarrassed about what had seemed at the time like a good plan.

Holmes produced the spare key from his pocket and opened the drawer to study the assorted clutter.

"Would you care to tell me what I am missing?"

I joined him by the desk and pointed to the drug bottles. "Those, Holmes. Weaver had me poison the whisky with your supply. Then he made me fill them with soda water."

Holmes stared at me in bafflement.

"I thought you would notice the substitution," I mumbled, my mortification complete.

At this, he fairly laughed out loud. "Oh, my dear fellow, let me allay your fears on that subject. These bottles have been filled with plain water for some time. You merely substituted like for like."

"What? But you've always kept your supply in this drawer."

"I know, you know, and since you started publishing the accounts of our cases, every reader of _The Strand_ knows. Given that the criminal classes may also have access to that information, I judged it wise not to give them an opportunity to exploit my weakness."

I had to admit that his reasoning was without fault in the matter.

"Not only that," he went on, "but it seemed to please you to keep close watch on my habits. I am aware, Watson, that you are apt to monitor my usage by occasionally 'borrowing' my spare key from time to time."

"Only out of concern for you," I said in protest. "Where do you keep your supply now?"

"Ah, that would be telling. We all must have our secrets."

It dismayed me to think I had been so easily deceived, considering my earlier pride in having succeeded in weaning him even if temporarily from his dependence.

"But you haven't been –"

"No," said he firmly. "You may reassure yourself on that point. I have been far too preoccupied with this case. And what a case, Watson."

He rubbed his hands together and sighed. "I had not meant for you to be involved. I suspected he would not wait much longer and so engineered our quarrel in the express hope that it would thwart any plans he had concerning you. You must accept my most humble apologies on that front."

There are many things of which I believe Holmes to be capable, but this was one claim that even to my gullible ears did not ring true.

"Are you telling me, Holmes, that you deliberately sent that insulting message –"

"Calculated," he tried to correct me.

"_Insulting_ message," I reiterated with emphasis, "knowing that I would be offended by your presumptive behaviour, that we would then quarrel and not speak for the rest of the week? No, I am not so credulous to believe that."

He eyed me thoughtfully. "Then what?"

"You forgot. As you always forget when you have a case. Deny it if you dare!"

To his credit, he gave this statement some consideration before giving me a wolfish grin of capitulation. "Well, there may be some truth in what you say. Last Saturday, I thought we had him, Watson. I was, perhaps, rather more exuberant in my enthusiasm for the case than was considerate."

"Clearly you didn't apprehend him, which explains the reason for your mood the next morning."

"Slipped right through our fingers, he did," spoke up Lestrade. "We were that close and still the blackguard managed to escape. Slippery as an eel, that one. That business last Saturday forced him into a corner though. Mr Holmes was sure he would want his revenge and so we've been waiting for him to make his move."

"Good to know that your hearing has returned, Inspector," said I.

"Almost ten past eight, since you ask," Lestrade informed me, consulting his pocket watch. "And I've still got this fearful ringing in my ears. Well, I'll have to get a steam on if I'm to get this bounder safe in the cells and get myself home before midnight."

He got to his feet, finishing his drink as he did so, and extended his hand to us. "A pleasure as always, Mr Holmes. And thank you, Dr Watson, we couldn't have done it without you, sir. Good night, gentleman."

As he made his way to the door, I noticed something small and shiny on the carpet. I stooped to pick it up and found in my hand a glass phial that had a curious but familiar smell about it.

"What's that you've got there?" Lestrade asked.

"Wolfsbane," I murmured. "Dear heavens, Holmes, the phial is empty!"

* * *

_Continued in __**VIII: The Medicine of Life **_

_Reviews, comments and miscellaneous stuff welcome as ever and always greatly appreciated._


	8. VIII: The Medicine of Life

_**The Case of the Assured Assassin**_

**VIII: The Medicine of Life**

Scarcely had the words left my mouth than came a mighty bellow from one of the constables below, yelling out for Lestrade. In my haste, I fairly pushed the Inspector out of the way and raced ahead of him down the stairs.

Outside, several policemen were crowded around the back of a Black Mariah, staring intently at something inside. I followed their gaze to find the huddled figure of Weaver on the floor. His wide eyes were fixed in an unseeing stare at the far wall and his clenched hands bore witness to the agony of his final moments.

A cursory examination confirmed he was indeed dead, and the slight smell I could detect from the encrusted vomit around his mouth pointed to the poison he had shown me earlier as being the culprit.

"Well, sir, I don't rightly know what happened," said a constable in answer to my question. "He was clutching at his stomach like, and then he started vomiting. Next thing we knew he was having a fit and then he was a goner."

"Poison," I explained to a stony-faced Lestrade. "One of his own preparations."

"And he poured it down his gullet just like that in the confusion upstairs?"

"He did say he wouldn't hang."

Lestrade was beside himself with fury and fairly laid into the hapless constables for their failure to search their prisoner. There seemed to be little to done about the matter, and so I made my way back up to the sitting room, where Holmes had been watching the proceedings from a window with the empty phial on a handkerchief in his hand.

"Poison then?" he asked.

"Yes. Wolfsbane."

"Aconitum to give it its proper name," said he, still with his gaze directed out at Baker Street. "Also colloquially known as monkshood, after the resemblance of the flower to the cowl worn by monks. That such a beautiful bloom could bear so deadly a poison does not seem in the settled order of things, does it?"

After this sentiment received no answer, he glanced back at me.

"I trust you did not get any on those hands of yours. Aconitum can be absorbed as easily through the skin as ingested. Cut skin is especially vulnerable."

"Yes, I know. I'd better wash them."

"There's water in my room, Watson. Help yourself."

I poured a goodly quantity into the bowl and scrubbed at my hands until the cuts reopened and coloured the water red. The full dose of the concentrated poison that Weaver had taken had worked devastatingly quickly to end his wretched life, but I knew that even a few drops could kill. Absorbed through the skin, the symptoms as I recalled were tingling and numbness, which would slowly spread up the arm to the shoulder, to finally affect the heart.

I flexed my fingers, checking for any sign of the first twinges that would indicate the poison's presence in my body. Thankfully, there was nothing and I let out a sigh of relief.

Drying my hands on a towel, I returned to the sitting room where I found Holmes in the process of lighting the fire.

"I should be going," I said. "Mary will be anxious."

"I sincerely doubt it, for she is staying the night with a friend in Barnet."

"How on earth do you know that?"

"Because I called round to see you after my journey into Essex, ostensibly to make amends, in reality to check that Weaver had not involved you in his plans for my demise. Unfortunately, a delay on the line meant I did not arrive at your surgery until after five, by which time I was too late and you had already been abducted."

"You knew it was him?"

"Mrs Watson told me you had been called to a confinement. Well, that was immediately suspicious."

"I've attended confinements before."

"Watson, you have a specialist not four doors along from your practice. Why would a new patient seek out a general practitioner when they could have an obstetrician? No, no, it would not do. So, I persuaded your charming wife that she should take the opportunity of your prolonged absence to visit an ailing acquaintance, to which she readily agreed. I saw her on the omnibus and, after informing Lestrade that the plot was laid, headed back to Baker Street at the expected time."

"You didn't tell Mary I was in danger?"

"No, of course not," said he, settling himself into his chair to watch the flames grow ever higher. "I'm not completely insensitive. It was merely a well-crafted suggestion to which she could find no objection."

"Good. But if you knew what had happened to me…?"

"Why didn't I look for you? My dear fellow, I could not take that risk. I knew _where_ you were of course. Old Mrs Johnston – an invaluable source of information, by the way – was kind enough to inform me of the newest addition to Baker Street a few weeks ago. A curious, small gentleman, as she described him, with an unpleasant manner about him. Who else could that be but Weaver? My problem was knowing whether he had a gun at your head. Had I attempted a rescue, he might have killed you."

"What a reassuring thought," said I. "How could you be sure that he wouldn't have done that anyway?"

Holmes smiled languidly. "If I had read my quarry correctly, which I had, I deduced that he had kidnapped you and forced you into some dark deed, which would result in my death. Having done that, all that remained to him was to affix the blame entirely on you by manufacturing your suicide. To do that, he would have to be sure I was dead first and then bring you here. He could hardly carry your lifeless corpse across the street in full view."

"That's what he said. So that's why you pretended to be dead? I still don't see why you couldn't have told me, Holmes."

"Because I heard him coming. In all honesty, I had expected you to arrive together. The scene was carefully prepared – the tourniquet for my arm and a little whisky in the glass on the floor to complete the illusion. However, no sooner had you blundered in than I heard him enter below. I had no time, Watson. I do most heartily apologise, however, for any distress I may have caused you, but you must understand it was for the greater good."

"Very well, as you put it like that," said I, grudgingly accepting his apology. "You wouldn't have fooled me for much longer though, even with that tourniquet of yours."

"Thankfully, I did not have to. Weaver appeared, went through his usual routine and thus I was able to apprehend him in the very act."

"Was it really necessary to leave it to the last minute like that? He could have shot me in the head."

"Not with my pistol pointed at his. Watson, you know I have a flair for the dramatic. This had to play through the end. I had to know his every move."

As usual, he seemed to have all the answers. He had been confident enough in his abilities to risk both our lives on this venture and had been proved correct, although whether by sheer good fortune or good judgement I did not like to ask. The case had been concluded, an assassin was no more and my nerves were thoroughly rattled, yet there was still something I did not understand.

"Why did he do it, Holmes? You said he was a solicitor."

He took a long, deep breath. "Mr Stanley Wentworth Weaver was the youngest of a coal mining family of twelve. He had the good fortune to be born with brains, and this did not go unnoticed. He was saved from a life down the mines by a recommendation to a scholarship scheme, administered by Lord Bayborough. Weaver excelled and was expected to take the bar at the Inner Temple. However, his roots told against him and he was excluded despite his brilliance. Who can say what bitterness this bred or when his mind first turned to murder? His first victim was almost certainly Lord Bayborough, a classic case of biting the hand that had nurtured him. From then on, his career as a murderer for hire seems to have flourished."

"How did you make the connection?"

"In the usual way. A client came to me, some six weeks ago, distraught that the authorities believed that her sister had been killed by her husband, who had then committed suicide. I was convinced enough by her assurance that this could not have been the case to make a few enquiries. The main benefactor was the husband's younger brother and his representative was…"

"Mr Stanley Weaver."

"Correct. It seemed to me an odd alliance, given that Weaver was based in London and the younger brother in Cumbria. Weaver had done no work for him before and the choice seemed purely arbitrary. A few more enquiries revealed the nature of his unpalatable trade. Trapping him, however, was another matter. So, perhaps irresponsibly, I applied pressure by hounding him and forced him to show his hand."

It all made perfect sense now he had explained it. I was glad that an appalling murderer had been brought to justice, but not so by the method Holmes had employed. That my misgivings told on my face was evident from his next question.

"You are still brooding, Watson?"

"No, I am just a little shaken by the whole episode. You really should have told me about the case."

"You are busy with your own affairs," said he. "Despite what you may believe, I do not like to badger you incessantly with my petty problems."

"This was not petty, Holmes! Forewarned is forearmed."

He held up a hand. "Please, Watson, no clichés. I'm too tired. What would you have me say in my defence?"

"There was no other way?"

He shook his head. "Had there been, I would never have considered such recklessness."

"Then I suppose as you say the end justified the means."

Holmes shook his head. "No, it was not well done and this ending most unsatisfactory. If even a small percentage of his files represent a paid murder, then his victims must number in the hundreds over the course of his career. His death now before questioning has allowed the guilty to dart left and right from our net. His clients paid him for his skill and ultimately his silence. He was in that respect a true professional."

"At least he will not murder again."

"Yes, that is true. We must be grateful for small mercies. I'm sure with some deeper investigation some other of his foul deeds may be brought to light."

He had been staring long and hard at the fire while he spoke, but now his gaze came back to me and fell upon the blood-smeared towel I was holding.

"Those hands of yours, Doctor, need attention," said he.

"They are clean cuts. They will heal well enough."

"Many a man has died from an infected wound," said Holmes. "Physician, heal thyself, and then I think we will take a late supper at the restaurant around the corner. That is, if you are not too shaken to countenance a meal?"

"Now you mention it, Holmes, I am quite hungry. What about Mrs Hudson?"

"She will not return until morning, again at my urging. I did not want her here."

"In case of failure?"

He offered me a brief smile. "It was a consideration. Well, Watson, shall we be away? In view of my behaviour lately, I insist that this should be my treat."

"Funnily enough, that idea had occurred to me too. I bought you a gift, Holmes. A twenty-year old malt. It's in my bag. Oh, but don't drink it," said I, seeing him take up the bottle to investigate. "There's arsenic in it."

"Truly then a poisoned chalice," he remarked. "And a dire waste at that. Whatever possessed you to go to such expense on my behalf?"

"I felt I had wronged you by my harsh accusations the other day."

He hummed a little. "Ah, yes, you said I had been apt to use you in the past. Well, judging from the events of today, I fear your pronouncement may not be entirely unsound."

"Unfair then. I am as culpable as you are. What I have done and all I have experienced these many years of our friendship, I would not have missed for worlds."

"Even today?"

"Even that, Holmes."

He held my gaze for a long moment before laying his hand on my shoulder.

"Ah, my good and faithful Watson, you are truly the medicine of life. 'Forsake not an old friend', as the Bible has it, for when a friendship is old, as with wine, does one drink it with pleasure."

It was said lightly, but I sensed the sincerity behind his words and was grateful for it.

"Very well," said I. "Just promise me one thing."

"Anything."

"Let's avoid whisky. I've had my fill of that day."

When he caught my eye, it was to see that my comment had not been seriously meant and we laid the ghost of that evening with laughter, dinner and finally a much welcome sherry.

**The End**

* * *

_Sherlock Holmes, Dr Watson et al are the creations are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Characters and incidents mentioned in this work are entirely fictitious. This work of fan fiction is for entertainment purposes only and has not been created for profit._


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